Hangman
by DoilyRox
Summary: There's a reason the show cut off at the begining of the Second Tournament. People don't like to talk about what came next. But he's supposed to talk about it; it's why we're here. And if he doesn't? Well, we'll have to write that too. A burden shared is a burden halved; but some weights aren't meant to be lifted. OCs/no romance; rated for dystopian concepts.
1. As We Meet

**I'll go ahead and tell you right now: this will be rarely updated. Furthermore, as this is a project to help develop my skills as a writer, there are no quotation marks in the work. EVER. I do this because the speaker wants to convey exactly what she says near the end of this chapter; actions, as well as words. Ideas, not permanent things. Please bear with me as I experiment with this fic.**

**Per usual, Disclaimer.**

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_As We Meet_

It is a bright day; sunny, two clouds in the distance. He smiles as we shake hands. A pleasant smile; one I can only see half of past the glare in my eyes. Long hair is tied back, green eyes seem intrigued. He knows why I am here, and I wonder if he'll be cooperative.

So you're my ghost writer, he says.

Something like that, I agree.

Here to tell the world about my deepest, darkest secrets?

I'm too nervous to notice he's only teasing me. So I smile, Only if you let me.

His smile grows; white teeth past chapped lips. So he does not know. Before this is all over, he chooses what stays and what goes. I have the urge to tell him, but the topic has already moved on.

Though his hands were washed, I swipe mine against my jeans. I can feel dirt under my fingernails.

* * *

His walk is a comfortable stride, as if he were among friends and allies. I wonder if he sees the way they look at us; there is judgment past the lethargy in their eyes. It's something only body language can show.

Their eyes do not condemn me, though as one looks away, I know they condemn him.

I know there hasn't always been a rift there, and I wonder how it was made. Perhaps that is why they judge; because I might never know.

Even if it is lies, I must write it.

I wonder if he sees what I do.

If he does, he does not appear to care.

* * *

He shows me to the room I will be sharing with the other girls. My pallet is the one on the far right; the trunk on the wall behind it was for my personal use. He suggests we try to keep it tidy, as the cleaners only come by once every two weeks. This means I will only see them once during my stay.

I tell him this is not a problem, and toss my bag onto my mat.

This Japanese habitat was not unexpected; but it was still uncomfortable. Likely I would adapt in time. He leans on the doorway, watching as I move to the trunk and inspect it. It is deep, made of wood, and would carry more than anything I'd brought along.

How often will you need to interview me? He asks, as if I'd done this before.

Perhaps he thinks I have. They must've talked us up to be something special, I'm sure. It was a lot of competition, to be here. It won't be a vacation during my stay. I'm here to make money. Odd, because he is here to recover.

I wouldn't say interview. Just talking, really. Ten, fifteen minutes a day.

Will you get enough material that way? He seems shocked. I shrug. He doesn't know I already have more than the others. I am good with words. It was why I'm here.

I smile. Should be.

* * *

To base his story off dialogue alone would be a grave mistake. Communication is made more by actions than by words. I will communicate as he does, as best as possible.

Perhaps this means omitting what he says, but I do not think that will be possible. He does not seem like a liar to me.

I will keep a notebook, anyway. To carry around and jot down notes. My laptop's life is short. I will not be able to write it all down as he says it, or I will miss important parts.

Notes will have to do.

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**As you can see, very short chapters. Please send questions to me through a review, and I will answer them all either in the A/Ns or through a PM (or, if I feel the need for temporary secrecy, in an explanation at the end of the fic). I believe this will be a relatively short project, something to work on in my writers block free time during NaNoWriMo. The chapters themselves are shorter than anything I've ever done before; and it seems the site is giving me a hard time with the formatting, so for the awkwardness I apologize.**

**Review please.**


	2. Games

**Because I believe one chapter is never enough to start a story.**

**Disclaimer.**

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_Games_

Our habits are different from theirs. We eat at different times, even from each other, and that is odd to them. Two of us- myself and one other- bathe in the morning. This, too, they do not understand. We cook sweet things and use a lot of milk. They do not. I do not think they would touch our cereal boxes with a ten foot pole, with what their diets have become. Have always been? I do not know. I will ask him later.

We are from a different world than them. Literally and figuratively.

* * *

Myself and the one who bathes with me in the mornings have eaten lunch together, which we did not do yesterday, but by coincidence have done today. We talk as we eat; with the translators loose around our necks, the words come out English. We keep the ear buds in, though. It muffles our voices to each other, but if we are caught by surprise by one of the others, it will help us understand their words.

We have talked for half an hour before she brings up the topic of my notebook. I haven't written anything in it yet, I haven't seen him since yesterday. We decide to play a game.

The competition that decided who would come wasn't a fun one. We did not get to meet as many of the others as we would have liked, and the opportunity was such a huge one, the attitudes of the girls were anything but docile. But now that we are of the four that won, we can relax and play such games with ease.

Two games of tic-tac-toe, both draws, and we decide upon a different activity. Hangman.

It is the third round of this, my turn guessing, that he walks in for lunch. The others will be short to follow. It is our cue to vacate. But we do not, and will not until I have guessed the word.

E, I guess. The vowels should always be guessed first, and I managed the first, third, and second to last in a ten letter word.

She drew the head. I purse my lips. I.

One. The seventh letter.

What are you playing? He asks, and takes a seat to my right. He sits casually, and watches with a smile. I wonder if he's ever played a game similar as I click the translator together around my neck, and briefly explain the game. The smile now seems a bit forced, Dark implications for a word game.

I don't suppose they sing Ring Around the Rosie as children, here. So I shrug. I say, Not as bad as some games. O.

Because her ear buds are in, she understands what we say, and nods, writing an O as the fifth letter. She connects her translator and asks what other games I know of like this.

Five out of ten letters, I should start guessing consonants. D, I say, have you ever read The Handmaid's Tale?

She draws the spine. Atwood? Yes.

Scrabble.

The meaning comes soon after her bewildered blink, and she laughs.

C, I guess. She writes it in, third from last. I know the word. Anatomical.

She smiles and tells me good job, writing the word as his fellows begin to appear. His posture ignites their curiosity, though they say nothing. Let me give you one more, she says.

Sure, I agree, as it appears they must cook their meal. Ours are often faster. Microwavable things, quick and easy. By her smile, I know she's done something clever.

Is it a phrase? He asks, seeing the skipped lines by the spaces.

Yes, she says with a smile. Perhaps she thinks she's confused me. But as she draws the stand I count the letters, and remember more from the previously mentioned book.

Before she finishes with the drawing I say, _Nolite te bastardes carborundorum._

It does not translate. The three others are confused as she pouts. How did you remember it that fast?

My literature teacher beat it into me, I say with a smile. Your face gave it away. Besides, that's cheating. You're only supposed to use English.

It's Latin, so it's close enough.

But it's not real Latin. It's fake. Dog latin. You should know this.

At my teasing she tossed the notebook at my face. I cringed, but grinned, and as we stood to leave he asked, What does it mean?

The connection between the context of the novel and his previous circumstances do not go unnoted, and that is why my grin fell quickly.

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

He blinks, and smiles. I take it the novel is not as romantic as the title translates.

She laughs, though nervously. She is still not comfortable around them, though her partner is in the room. I shrug, Just about as romantic as any dystopian novel.

Do you read a lot of books like that? I notice that his smile is well-paced.

It's high school. You read a lot of crazy shit.

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**Keeping it brief, yo. Have you ever read a fan fic with a style like this? No? It's new for me too... oh, well. I look forward to embarking upon this adventure with you. Same blah blah blah A/N as in the first chapter.**

**Review please! I need feedback from this, as it is an experiment. Loves!**


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